


You're My Mission

by karako



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Insanity, Mild amounts of sass, Weaknesses, assassinations, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:18:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karako/pseuds/karako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America: The Winter Soldier - written from Bucky's perspective.</p>
<p>Having been conditioned to be perfect, the Winter Soldier has become the magnum opus of Hydra weaponry. But for the first time, this quality is challenged when the Soldier goes out on a mission and comes back with an identity crisis. Completing his mission just got a whole lot harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“I once had a boss- really, he was more my partner- called Johann Schmidt, former leader of Hydra. He was a visionary, truly a genius. Although some of his ideas were a little more… how should I put this… drastic than my own, we both had the same philosophy. You know, of course, about Adolf Hitler’s obsession for Aryan perfection. Neither Schmidt nor I agreed with his focus on a specific race of people; we were not that shallow. Physical appearances- bah, what do they matter without a practical use? However, perfection in the military is an utterly different matter._

_“Imagine the perfect militia, capable of doing anything without fail and with only minimal casualties. Schmidt and I believed in this strongly. At first, we solely concentrated on perfect weapons. Perfect weapons win wars, yes? That is what Howard Stark believed. We saw further proof of this when he had his hand in developing the atomic bomb, and that idea clearly worked for him. Perhaps we genuinely believed in this was well. Or perhaps the universe was holding us back to bring us something better in the future._

_“Schmidt, he was so obsessed with attaining perfection that it was the only thing he was concerned about. I, as his right hand man, was pressured to do the majority of the actual labor. However, the very idea of perfection and what he could do with it plagued him. Refusing to even consider putting our efforts into other projects, he would not sleep for days on occasion, he would not eat, his temper would flare unpredictably, and he could be heard screaming to himself locked away in his room. Schmidt stood on the edge of insanity, and no one knew what could pull him away._

_“Unfortunately after he left Hydra’s base in the Alps on his quest to test out the weapons philosophy for himself, he was lost. He never got to see what the universe had in store for us. But I did. The universe gave me you. A fallen soldier, but a soldier nonetheless. What was I to do, having lost the most powerful energy source ever seen by mankind, the basis of Hydra technology? It was a sign-_ you _were a sign- that technology is not everything in acquiring total domination. You see, the perfect militia is not composed of soldiers with perfect weapons- the soldier_ is _the perfect weapon._

_“That is what you are to become. “Change is coming, Doctor,” Schmidt used to tell me. He was never wrong. He usually referred to the change as some form of success in his overall plans for our causes, but you, I think, are the biggest change of all. You are to triumph where Schmidt’s one-sided obsession failed. You are to usher us into a new era of warfare._

_“You are to be the new fist of Hydra.”_

Or so they tell me.

 

\---

 

It’s kind of like being in a dream. The silence. The nothing. Just me and my thoughts. Sometimes I dream of people. Some I have met. Most I have killed. But some I do not know. How can that be? I thought the mind only remembered the faces of people I have seen. Could I have forgotten who they were? And yet, there they are. A woman with dark hair and a motherly face. A man with blond hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. And someone who looks like me but isn’t. He looks strong. Free. Sane. I might know him, but I’ve never seen him before. At least, I don’t think I have. But who knows? So much is uncertain when I go under. When I wake up, I feel like a different person. I guess that is to be expected when you sleep for years and years at a time. Frozen in ice. Not allowed to move. Just me and the strangers in my head.

And tormentors.

That is what they are to my newly revived mind. They serve no other purpose than to unmake and remake me endlessly. It’s gotten easier over the years to accept them, but their movements and actions remain unsettling.

Unfrozen. An unbearably rude awakening. Why don’t they leave me be? Haven’t they done enough? Sometimes I try to resist. Fight back. But each time it proves to be hopeless. And in the end, a relief. They clear my thoughts.

Remove the strangers in my head.

No more dreams.

It’s for my own good. I stray from the perfect soldier I was created to be otherwise.

Or so they tell me.

 

 ---

 

Groggily blinking my eyes, I realize that I can’t see. At least, not anything detailed. Why? I breathe in, but something other than air rudely floods my nostrils and forces me to cough it out. Then I know. Drowning. Sure of it. I am submerged in water and I don’t know why.

I only know that I can’t breathe.

I gasp, rising abruptly out of the water. Air. It’s such a welcome presence that I let myself relish in a few huge inhalations of it before making sense of my surroundings.

I sit upright in some kind of tank mostly full of water facing a set of double doors. Steel-plated, no doubt. The walls of the tank are only about twelve inches high, but I’m at least three feet above the floor. Peering over the walls, I see I’m on a table a little bigger than my box. White coated men have positioned themselves around it, periodically throwing me anxiety-filled glances. One or two stand at a control panel linked to my tank with a few thick cables.

“His vitals are stable,” one of the control men says in German. He wears wire-rimmed glasses that catch the fluorescent lights illuminating the room and temporarily blind me.

A groan caused by the irritating glare escapes my lips and I strain to stop myself from reaching out and destroying the offending thing. The fact that I am currently in a fish tank with foot-high walls reminds me that it would take a bit of time to climb out- time enough for armed guards waiting behind the only door to the room to come in and neutralize me with tranquilizers.

It would be embarrassing. Even more than just being in the tank.

_Rationality is of the upmost importance,_ says the voice in my head. _Irrationality leads to imperfection, which in turn leads to failure. And a perfect soldier does not fail._

The other control man- this one without glasses- keys in a command and turns a knob on the panel. “Tank capacity at sixty percent and decreasing.”

I feel the waterline receding below my ribcage. How did I not notice that before? Probably those stupid glasses.

“Forty.”

“Should we call him in?” glasses man says. He rubs the back of his bald head nervously.

The other man sighs and replies, “Better sooner than later.” He rechecks the control panel stats. “His vitals are still stable. Twenty percent.”

Why are they speaking German? Am I back in Berlin? When I last went under I was in… I struggle to remember. China?  I think that was it. And that unfortunate lab accident in Hong Kong. Sometimes, I wonder why they bother sending me out when most Chinese chemists are so unsuspecting that almost anyone could walk in, break a beaker over their heads and be done with it.

Why am I in Berlin? I hope it’s not another Nazi sympathizer. Their enthusiasm makes my skin crawl.

Glasses man touches an earpiece and speaks accented English into it. “He is awake and thawed. You may enter.”

The sound of sliding bolts unlocking the doors interrupt Glasses-less as he states, “Tanks at zero percent capacity. Open the doors.”

Two other white-coated men reach for the handles, but the doors fly inwards themselves, hitting one of the men in the process. Six armed guards enter, followed by two suited men. One I don’t recognize. One I do.

Pierce. Alexander Pierce himself. I tense, but do my best not to show it.

Can’t let him know how I feel. He would see it as a weakness and then do God knows what-

No. Thinking about it will make it worse.

_Perfection,_ the voice reminds me. _You are perfection._

Pierce strides to the right side of my tank, motioning for the other suited man to follow. A briefcase swinging at the man’s side bangs into his knee as he makes up his mind on whether or not to comply. He really doesn’t have much of a choice. Not when it comes to Pierce.

“Mr. McCoy, if you please,” Pierce instructs in English as he gestures first to me and then to the briefcase. With a tight smile, McCoy tiptoes to the table and sets the case down on a space not occupied by the fish tank. He digs a key from an inside jacket pocket and unlocks the case, pulling out a deep blue file. Stealing a glimpse at my left arm, he falters when handing the file to Pierce.

There is not much more unsettling than setting eyes on something most people think to be a myth because the reality of it is too unbelievable to comprehend.

I couldn’t care less how he sees me. Or most of the others in here, for that matter. The true threat here is the one holding my future in his hands.

Pierce opens the file and briefly rifles through it. “This is your new mission,” he states, beginning to pace. “Nothing you can’t and haven’t handled before, but I’ve taken the liberty of including extra information on him. Don’t let his appearance fool you- he isn’t just another pretentious prick who believes in patriotism and equality and all that crap.” Pierce pauses reflectively. “I have worked with him personally. For many years, in fact. For someone who mostly orders other people what to do from a safe distance, he is a tough adversary.”

He checks to see if I am paying attention. I am, but not to the mission. I’ve been watching him like a hawk since he entered the room.

Unpredictability has always seemed to be his strong suit.

Pierce continues, apparently satisfied. “We’ve also gathered some intel on his schedule for the next few days, thanks to a few trusted moles. You have no more than three days to complete the mission, effective immediately. That should be more than enough time to get the job done.” He abruptly stops and turns to face me. “This is all quite a generous amount of information in comparison to your other missions. A little appreciation, recognition, anything would be nice.”

That does it. I will not allow him to get under my skin. Not today. Not any more. I’ve already had my share of that from both Pierce and my previous higher-up.

With my kind of abilities, I should be the one giving the orders.

Besides, perfect soldiers do not have weaknesses.

Still glowering at him, I swallow the lump in my throat and open my mouth to speak. “ _Holen sie mich aus dem aquarium_ ,” I growl.

Silence. Not even the sound of breathing.

It takes a large chunk of energy not to roll my eyes in disappointment. Oh well. The white-coated men probably aren’t used to a dangerous weapon giving them orders.

I shift my gaze to Glasses-less. He finally gets the hint and hits a few buttons on the panel. The tank walls fall down, swaying slightly on their hinges. A light _squeak_ emits from each motion they make. It’s annoying, but I can’t let Pierce know I’m bothered. Perfect soldiers do not have weaknesses.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the table to dangle comfortably, I snatch the file Pierce holds out for me. It does feel heavier than the others I’ve received.

How thoughtful of him.

Pierce sighs. With a wave of his hand he says distractedly to the guards, “Escort him back to his room. He has a bit of homework to do.” Swiveling on his heel, he’s out of the room before the other suited man can gather his senses. He seems to be fixated on my arm.

What was his name again? McCoy?

Doesn’t matter. Not the mission.

He meets my eyes and fumbles for the briefcase, snapping it closed and rushing after Pierce, practically stepping on his heels. Two guards follow the men out, while the other four, accompanied by a few white-coats with flimsy medical instruments, probably meant to subdue me if I become a problem, jerk me off the table.

Homework. A lighter, less serious term for research, which is what it really is. Making fun of me as if I am a child, and he, the over-bearing parent.

Not worth getting upset over. Emotions only get in the way of true perfection.

Or so they tell me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the German is inaccurate, I had to use Google Translate. I have a lot more undergoing the editing process. It will be posted as soon as I can get over my crippling perfectionism. What do you think so far? I'll update the tags/summary/whatever else as the story progresses.


	2. Chapter 2

_Name:_ Fury, Nicholas Joseph

_Known as:_ Nick Fury

_Other aliases:_ Unknown

_Family:_ Father, Jack Fury (deceased); siblings, Jacob “Jake”, Dawn (both deceased); no known children/significant others

_Marital status:_ Unmarried

_Age:_ Unspecified. _Noteworthy:_ Aging stunted due to injections of Infinity formula (Berthold Sternberg)

_Known combat skills:_ Former heavyweight boxer, black belt in tae kwon do, brown belt in Jiu Jitsu; prefers handguns

_Notable weaknesses:_ 95 % vision loss in left eye; wears eyepatch

_Occupation:_ Director of SHIELD

_Last known residence:_ Santa Fe, New Mexico (destroyed in fire rumored to be arson)

_Current residence:_ Unspecified; believed to be somewhere in Washington DC, Maryland, USA

_Affiliations:_ CIA, SHIELD, Maria Hill, Phillip Coulson, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Bruce Banner

 

A laminated photo of the mission depicts a black male. Tall, dressed in all-black leather boots, trench coat, gloves- very inconspicuous, how will I ever track him down- with an eyepatch covering harsh scarring to his left eye. Lines etched into his face like stone give away his age, but the gleam in his right eye and his hard-set jaw do not vouch for it. The handgun he brandishes adds to the tough demeanor. Pierce appears to be right. This isn’t some trembling politician who would sell out his possessions, his friends, his soul when confronted with anything from a pay dock to death. This is a man who has been the one threatening the politicians. One who no doubt killed in cold blood without a second thought. His final moments would not be spent cowering, but rather fighting to his last breath.

However, he will be no more difficult to dispose of.

Included in the file are other sheets of information about the mission’s associates. An unnecessary waste of printer ink, but Pierce wouldn’t have included it if they weren’t important to the mission, so I scan the pages. Names and other details appear but are forgotten almost as quickly as they are read.

_Avengers… Norse god… Radiation…_

They don’t matter. Not the mission.

Other photos flutter to the floor as I carelessly rifle through the contents of the file. Not my mission. Not important. A blur of red and blue lands on my bare foot.

No. Nothing touch me. I almost angrily kick it away, but the face in the picture stops me. His intense gray-blue eyes make me wonder if I’ve seen him before.

But I don’t know him, I know I don’t.

I’m still looking at the photo when Glasses opens the door and half-steps in. “It’s time to get suited up,” he says from behind the safety of the thick metal. His presence surprises me and I start. The photo returns to the floor, landing face up. Glasses notices its subject and glances from me to the floor.

“Is there an issue?” he questions. In English. Which means Pierce is listening. Can’t let him know there could possibly be one. I shake my head, but not soon enough. Glasses turns away, pressing a blinking earpiece, and whispers in its direction. “Sir, the soldier has become compromised. It was the super-soldier again.” He pauses, listening, and turns back towards me, managing a less-than-pleasant smile.

“Before you get suited up, we’re going to get you some pre-mission preparation. Come, follow me.” Glasses walks into the hallway, waiting for me to join him.

Preparation. Pierce is in an unusually good mood this time. I got off easy. Phantom pains from once-broken ribs remind me that there should never be any distractions. Nothing but the mission.

Preparation will solidify that. It keeps me grounded. Focused. Perfect.

Or so they tell me.

 

 ---

 

The garbled English in my ear has been steadily increasing in both volume and panic. Their whiny mosquito-like voices have long since overlapped and blended together, becoming an unintelligible droning constantly in my ear.

But I don’t let it bother me. Perfect weapons don’t have weaknesses.

Besides, I can hear the chaos without an earpiece. Gunshots and squealing tires echo throughout the city. From my position perched on the edge of a rooftop, it’s as clear as if I were in the thick of it myself.

Of course, if I were, the mission would have been finished at least ten minutes ago.

The American branch of Hydra is full of cocky egomaniacs without efficiency skills or proper training. It is a burden to work with them. Who knows where they would be if not for foreign assets frequently needing to step in?

Breaking the English gibberish, the only voice that makes sense cuts through and addresses me. My personal contact. _“Миссия приближается ваше местоположение. Время, чтобы взорвать его заоблачные.”_

The mission swerves wildly down the street flagged by a few fake police cars I know to be Hydra backup. Finally. I can return to headquarters and become frozen again. I’ve had enough of strange voices and people who don’t know the difference between killing and chasing mission targets.

I step off the roof, grabbing at windowsills and wall etchings to slow my descent. As my heavy boots hit the pavement, the provided weapon is thrust before me. Standing, I take the weapon and stride out to the middle of the street.

A magnetized grenade launcher. Works wonders on automobiles and airplanes. It attaches itself to the metal of the target and detonates with crushing force. It’s not a clean and tidy means to an end, but it gets the job done.

The mission speeds closer. His eyes land on me and a puzzled expression crosses his face.

I know weapons aren’t supposed to have emotions, but something like satisfaction swells in my chest. I’ll never tire of the eyes that question me, _what are you?_

But that’s enough for now.

I fire. The grenade skims under the mission’s car and fastens itself in the dead center of the underside.

If the mission doesn’t blow to bits or receive fatal wounds due to shrapnel, perhaps the explosion of the fuel tank will roast him.

The detonation doesn’t go as expected, which would entail there being hardly enough scraps of the car to melt into a mailbox. The car, instead, launches itself a good two and a half meters into the air, comes down hard on its nose, and skids on the path it had been previously following- on a collision course with me. I sidestep the oncoming mass and patiently wait for the fuel tank to ignite. The car skids a little further and falls forward, coming to a rest on its topside.

And doesn’t ignite.

And doesn’t ignite.

It must have been built like a tank. No normal car would withstand such an attack. But I guess if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

I stomp over to the car, ready to rip out the mission’s heart through his chest. He’ll know I’m coming, if he still lives. No sense in being delicate. So I tear off the door, hearing the locks and hinges screech in protest. Anticipating the sight of bruised and bloody man hanging upside down, dead or at the very least, incapacitated.

But I am greeted with neither of those things. There seems to be a lack of mission entirely in the vehicle.

There is, however, a very large hole. Going through the roof of the car, into the street, all the way through underlying sewer pipes. Heat from the hole slightly fogs my goggles. It’s annoying, but I make no move to wipe them clear. I can still see.

Besides, perfect weapons don’t have weaknesses.

I radio my contact. _“_ _Миссия Убежал. Я собираюсь разыскать его. Я буду радио вы, если мне нужно любые другие материалы для завершения.”_

The mission burned a hole through the street to evade me. He should be commended for his efforts.

Shame he won’t live long enough to celebrate.

 

 ---

 

I lay on the roof as flat as possible. I have lost count of the hours spent just watching. A pebble has somehow lodged under me, torturing a rib bone. I have to move. The jagged sounds of metal scraping concrete assaults my ears and I curse myself for not being quieter. I’m jeopardizing the mission. I revert to being a statue.

A single bead of sweat trickles down from my forehead, sliding close to my eye but not close enough to cause it to distract me. I don’t move. It clears my cheekbone and hits the concrete with the tiniest splash. I don’t have to look to know it has taken some of my black eye paint with it. Right now this isn’t a major issue, but if it were any hotter out here it would be. It could strip me of part of my disguise. My anonymity is vital to Hydra. I’ll have to see if one of the doctors could fix the problem.

After finding the hole, I tracked the mission for an hour or two through the sewer tunnels. He took a few side routes to try and lose me, but to no avail. I stayed a fair distance behind, never letting him out of my sight, but never letting him know of my presence. A ghost in the sewer tunnels. He must have thought I had gone astray, because when he got to a manhole cover and out of the dark, he made a beeline for a sleepy apartment complex.

Check another attempt at explosion off the list. I will be no help to Hydra if the media begins covering my tracks.

For a moment, his choice of venue confused me. It only took a glance at the street signs to figure it out.

This is the residence of one of the mission’s associates. I can’t remember which one, but I know where the apartment is located.

I should be able to see inside it from a nearby building.

Hydra soon brought supplies to better suit the state of the mission. Including the sniper I have been using as binoculars for the last couple of hours.

Peering through the scope, I can see inside the apartment perfectly. The various knickknacks lining a shelf in the center of the living room pose as tempting targets, but they are not the prime objective. That waits somewhere else inside, out of my sight. But not for much longer.

A man enters the apartment. Not the mission, but he seems vaguely familiar. He weaves cautiously through the room, sensing something is off. Hopefully it’s not my presence in the area that he notices. He slowly turns toward my direction, and I tense. I don’t need him screwing this mission up. I’ve already had to change plans once today, something that has happened approximately zero times since my first assignment. That I know of.

I breathe a sigh of relief and relax as the man swivels sharply to speak to something that has caught his eye. Or someone. I tense again.

He takes a few steps back and then my mission emerges from behind a wall.

Finally. I hold my breath and take aim. Pausing temporarily, I allow myself to wonder who the other man is. I could swear I recognize him…

I shake my head. Doesn’t matter. Not the mission.

It’s now or never.

I pull the trigger once, twice, three times. Target goes down. So does the other man.

Was that a duck or a hit? I strain for a better view of the mission. I never miss. I must have hit him. Time to go. Standing up to leave, I sling the rifle around my back but the other man sees me. He knows.

I run.

_Faster, faster,_ says the voice in my head. Have to get away. I compromised my anonymity by waiting those extra few seconds. Stupid! Why did I do that?

_Shoot first, question later. What have I told you about double checking? A perfect soldier does not double check. He does it right the first time._

I leap off the roof of a building onto a smaller one. Breaking glass and pounding footsteps behind me fuel my sprint but it doesn’t really matter because I’m almost to the street where the motorcycle waits for me a few blocks down. Just a few more steps. I’m going to make it.

The sound of something splitting through the air towards my head could be an issue.

The object reflects the air that surrounds it, creating miniature, cyclone-like winds. I can guess from the lack of major changes in the horizontal span of the winds that it is circular, but the vertical span doesn’t reveal much other than the object is not very tall. I estimate it to be approximately 30 inches in diameter. Bigger than the Frisbees I used to use for practice targets, but not by a lot. A high-pitched metallic warbling emits from the metal Frisbee, suggesting the thrower has sent the weapon spinning. It gets louder quickly, so I know it will reach me soon, but gusts of the humid nighttime air oppose the direction of the Frisbee. Against a metallic weapon slicing the space between the thrower and I, the gusts do not make a drastic change in its path of travel, but they do give me enough time to prepare myself so I don’t topple off the edge of the roof.

Not that I couldn’t handle the fall. It would be preferable, however, to have my assailant knowing that his efforts to stop me have failed.

All of this flashes through my mind as I stretch my left arm out behind me. I feel the smooth metal edge of the object hitting my hand and I turn my head to face him. He stands still, breathing hard out of both the physical exertion and the cold rage seething behind his blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones. I glare back, daring him closer. My first instinct- to destroy the weapon- is thwarted immediately when I briefly try to crush the edge of it with my fingers. Most other metals have no problem bending beneath the strength in my left hand, but this is a new challenge. I want to try using both of my arms now, but any movement and the man would charge at me, and I’d like to continue to keep him at bay on his side of the roof. I reconsider my plan. He is unarmed and wearing no protective armor. I can use that. I send the circular object- which I’ve now decided to be some sort of shield- back to him with a force as strong as the one he used on me. The winds are in my favor and help to aid the shield’s journey back to the man. It hits his chest and he slides backwards, stunned by the power behind the throw.

He’s lucky I went easy on him. I have no more extra time to fool around.

I spin back around to the edge of the roof. And I jump.

And I am gone.

That was way too close, I think as I land on a windowsill and hit the pavement, making my way stealthily to the motorcycle. I can’t let myself slip like that again. It’s unbecoming of a perfect soldier.

Or so they tell me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, it's hard to incorporate detail when you want to be as accurate as possible. I think it's turning out well so far, though.  
> If you can't read Russian (I know I can't, thank you Google Translate), here's what the statements say:
> 
> Миссия приближается ваше местоположение. Время, чтобы взорвать его заоблачные = The mission is approaching your location. Time to blow him sky-high.  
> Миссия Убежал. Я собираюсь разыскать его. Я буду радио вы, если мне нужно любые другие материалы для завершения = Mission escaped. I am going to track him down. I will radio you if I need any other materials for completion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I personally don't think it's too graphic, but then again, I haven't read/wrote a lot of violence, so I'm not sure what it looks like. Nevertheless, there is a little bit in this chapter (just to keep you on your toes).

Power. Surging, building. Ripping me apart from the inside out. Bloodlust clots my vision, distorts my sanity-

Sanity? What sanity? I haven’t known the meaning sanity for almost 70 years.

He prods me again. I grip the edges of the table I lay on to keep myself from tearing his throat out. Not that he doesn’t deserve it. But I’ve learned that they don’t like it when you try to kill someone. Or anyone.

The medical examination is standard for me after every mission. Nothing ever falls outside the boundary of normalcy, but still they do it. As if they believe I am that fragile.

I don’t injure like a human. I am too strong, too perfect.

He feels along my ribcage for breaks or bruises. I stare daggers at his bald head speckled with short white hairs. He makes the mistake of looking up, catching my eyes. Coughing awkwardly and quickly standing ramrod-straight, he shuffles around to his table of medical instruments. He’s trying to look calm, but I see how his hands shake.

I recognize the movements very well. There are not many people who aren’t terrified of me.

Taking a deep breath, he picks up one of the tools and walks around to the right side of my head. “You’re going to hear a beep?” he asks in heavily accented English. “Raise your hand when you do?” Standing as far away from me as possible, he sticks the instrument in my ear. Nothing happens at first, but then I hear it. Resonating through my head. A high-pitched whine. _Make it stop_. I jerk my head away from the instrument, but I can still hear the sound. _Eeeee…_

“Alright, it looks as though everything checks out?” Why does it always sound like he’s asking a question when he speaks? It’s almost as annoying as the ear instrument. The man arranges the tools on a tray in a neat little line. Probably a weak attempt to distract himself from me. Or maybe striving for perfection. Just about everyone around here seems to be obsessed with it.

_You are perfection,_ the German doctor’s words say to me. _Strong. Capable. Dangerous._ I shake my head hard. _Get out of my mind,_ I order him. _Haven’t you put me through enough already?_

_Perfection…_ his fading voice calls.

With a roar, I leap off the table. I can still hear the _eeeee_ of the ear instrument. I can’t see. Can’t think. Can’t feel. I don’t know how.

_Perfect…_

Finally, I hear my own hard, labored breaths. A Klaxon echoes through the room. Blurred images emerge out of the dark. I blink hard, trying to decipher my surroundings.

The tray of neatly arranged tools is overturned. Slim, silver objects litter the floor. The table I was laid on is against one of the walls instead of in the middle of the room, where it was before. It is bent and broken in several places.

I hear something else. I spin around fast. The man who was examining me is crawling back into a corner, fumbling for the radio clipped to his belt. His once-white coat is now smudged with dirt from the floor and blood that leaks from a cut on his hairless forehead. His eyes are wild and huge, like a deer caught in headlights. Just before a car hits and kills it.

“Backup,” he coughs into his radio. “Now. I need backup. He tried to kill me.” He struggles to get even farther away from me.

The door flies open. A small army piles into the room, most armed with guns leveled at various points on my body. “Freeze!” one demands loudly. Drop your weapons and don’t move!”

Weapons? What weapons? I don’t have access to any unless I’m given them, and that’s usually when I’m about to embark on another mission. I’m not even allowed to hold a pen without permission. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have forgotten how to write.

I look down. In my right hand, an empty syringe has somehow materialized. My left holds that thing the man put in my ear.

I can still hear the whine. _Make it stop._

I crush the plastic end in my hand and bend the thick metal handle. It folds like paper and clatters to the floor with the syringe following quickly. A few of the men look astounded. They must be new. They must not know what I can do. What I have done.

They’ll learn soon enough. One way or the other.

The less shocked-looking men roughly grab me, taking precautions in case I should try to fold them in half as I did the instrument. A couple of them painfully twist my right arm behind my back and hold it tightly in place. I know they do the same with my left arm because I can feel it pressed against me, but if they are as rough with it as they were with my right, I can’t tell. I am escorted out of the room towards my cell.

_Perfection…_

When they remade my left arm, they forgot to give it feeling. Nerve endings. Flesh. Blood. But it would have been pointless. Metal arms are made for functionality, not anything reminiscent of humanity. I am not human. I am a soldier, a weapon.

I am perfection.

Or so they tell me.

 

 ---

 

My head snaps to the right and the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth. I spit, then slowly sit up to face my captor. From my position on the concrete floor, he towers over me and fills my field of vision. A tattoo of the Hydra logo on his neck peeks out from underneath his uniform shirt, twitching to match the pulsing of his veins. He takes a few steps toward me and bends down to stare me in the face.

He speaks no words, but his eyes accuse and mock. _Pathetic._

“I really don’t like doing this, you know,” says a voice in the corner. Not the captor, who instead smirks and stands. “Risking damage to a specimen like you. If only you would perform correctly.”

A sharp kick to my stomach punctuates the statement, making me cough for air.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you of what perfection is,” the voice continues. “You are a weapon. Hydra’s weapon. Designed to be flawless.” The clacking of loafers cross the room, rather than my captor’s thick leather combat boots. The loafers stop and a hand grabs my chin, tilting it to face him.

He whispers. “So why, then, did you almost kill one of our good doctors over the sound of an otoscope?”

The terminology is lost on me and Pierce knows it. He just wants to establish his dominance and my failure.

“I…” I begin. “…I…”

Unsatisfied, Pierce lets go of my chin and my captor steps in to deliver a swift uppercut to it. My teeth crash together and I see stars. I double over from a punch to my gut but barely have time to register it before I find myself on the floor again, cheek stinging and sore from the blow.

“How long have you been at this?” Pierce asks.

“About twenty minutes,” the captor answers, shaking his hand. “Good God, did you reinforce his cheekbones, too? Feels like I broke my hand with that last hit.”

Waving the question away, Pierce responds, “How long can you keep it up?”

“Ah, I could go longer.” The captor examines his hand. “I think one of his teeth cut my knuckle. You should look into getting them filed down.”

Pierce laughs humorlessly. “Better not. What use is an attack dog without its teeth?” The last word echoes through the room as it falls into a hush. Then, the loafers’ clacking fades as he walks towards the door. “Beat him until your arm hurts, then switch arms and beat him for ten more minutes. I’m going to play Zola’s recordings. Maybe that’ll jog his mind.”

The door creaks open and closed, leaving me alone with my captor. “Alright, Sunshine, gimme your hands. Dr. Zola and I are gonna make you perfect again.” He drags me over to face a wall and forces me on my knees, shoving my wrists into metal handcuffs attached to the cement blocks. “As if,” he mutters, tightly fastening the left cuff. “If you ask me, he never succeeded in the first place.”

Anger boils in my chest. Who does he think he is, discrediting the work of Arnim Zola, the man who created me? I want to strangle him, but I am chained to a wall.

More importantly, perfect soldiers don’t have weaknesses.

The whirring of the recording starts up as my captor uncoils a whip. A lash leaves fire on my back and I grunt from the strain of holding back a scream. Perfect soldiers don’t have weaknesses, not even whips.

“ _I once had a boss- really, he was more my partner- called Johann Schmidt_ ,” the recording starts.

Another lash. I hold back the scream again, exhaling forcefully with effort.

“ _A_ p _erfect soldier does not double check. He does it right the first time.”_

Lash. This one wraps around my side, but the scream is easier to contain this time.

“ _The perfect militia is not composed of soldiers with perfect weapons- the soldier is the perfect weapon.”_

“ _Perfect soldiers don’t have weaknesses.”_

“ _You are perfection.”_

The beatings are good for me. They remind me that perfect weapons don’t have weaknesses. Weapons with weaknesses are destroyed. Destroying me would not be very helpful to the Hydra cause.

Time passes. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes. I no longer feel the pain from the whiplashes. Don’t even hear them. Only Zola’s droning putting me in my place.

_You are to be the new fist of Hydra._

Suddenly, I sense something is off. Waking out of my Zola-induced trance, I reassess the environment. Rivulets of blood trickle down my sides from open wounds that amplify the cool of the room. My right hand, suspended over my head, has gone numb. The steady beat of the whip on my skin has slowed. The labored breathing of my captor registers and I wonder how I managed to ignore it before. It’s louder than an old, stalling truck that was abandoned to rust.

“Oh my God,” he huffs. “I must be out of shape or something.” He struggles for air for a minute or so, and then drops the whip on the floor with a resounding _splat_. Little puddles of blood slowly form underneath its length.

“Alright, Sunshine, I think I’m done with you for now.” Clinking cuffs release my hand and it drops into my lap, tingling from a flood of fresh oxygen. The left follows and I stand, relieving the built-up tension in my knees from putting pressure on them for so long. Their joints crack loudly as I turn to the captor.

Flecks of red dot his hands, face, and neck. Droplets drip from his jawline to bloody his Hydra tattoo. A few more run down his forearm and disappear into his shirtsleeve as he radios whoever is on the outside.

I seem to have made quite a mess.

The door flings open and Pierce reenters, flanked by two armed guards. He takes great care to avoid the blood-soaked whip, barely suppressing a disgusted grimace.

“How is he?” he asks the captor, regaining his composure. “Back to normal, I expect?”

“Normal as can be, I think.” He gives me a suspicious stare. “Can never really tell with this guy, though. Completely unpredictable.”

Pierce smiles. “Not to me. I know him very well, better than he knows himself.” Pierce meets my eyes and I know that he knows I am back to what I should be. Perfect. “Still though,” he continues, turning behind him to receive a knife from one of the thugs, “it might do well for everyone here to test him out.” He hands me the knife and grins like a politician with a hidden agenda at my captor. “Except for you.”

My fingers twitch in anticipation and I hear the words before they leave Pierce’s mouth.

_“Kill him.”_

The captor’s eyes widen in fear and he makes a bolt for the door, shoving the thugs out of his way. They both slam against the wall and start to go after the mission, but a raised hand from Pierce stops them in their tracks. He politely motions to me, still grinning like a lunatic. Calmly striding in his wake, my foot brushes the whip and it slides forward. Streaks of blood stain the concrete. I make it out of the doorframe and twirl the blade between my fingers. Just to get the feel of it. Then, I let it fly down the corridor, where my mission runs as though he actually has a chance of escape.

It sticks in his upper back and he dies before he hits the floor.

Pierce stands at my shoulder and I can practically feel his smile. “Perfection,” he breathes.

I know.

That’s what they tell me.

 

 ---

 

Pinpricks are the least of my worries. Nothing bothers me now. I probably would have been decommissioned decades ago if not for the beatings and Zola’s recordings. They’re the only things that have kept me functional and focused.

It’s no wonder that Hydra uses me so often. How do humans cope without them?

From where I felt the pinprick on my human arm, a cool fluid flows into my veins and is soon circulating throughout my body. It feels like ice. My eyelids begin to droop.

“Just relax,” says the syringe-wielding man in front of me. He speaks in German. Finally. A normal dialect. All the English-speaking men around me probably helped to compromise my stability. “You’ll be unconscious soon.”

The ice-numbing sensation clouds my head. I can actually feel myself thinking slower.

The man strides over to a control panel and hits a few buttons. In response, a door slides across my vision and fastens itself directly to walls on either side of my arms. A hiss of decompressing air sounds, and then silence.

I am back in the fish tank.

The window right in front of my face allows me to see Syringe-Man still fiddling with the controls. I’m so tired. My chin falls to rest on my chest. Eyes close. Something cold spreads over my feet, over my ankles. What is it? Over my knees. It’s cold. A shiver runs through me.

Over my hips.

I open my eyes to thin slits. It’s cold and wet. Water? I lift my right hand clumsily- my elbow smacks the back of the tank, there really isn’t much room in here- and droplets run down my fingertips and ripple the rising liquid’s surface. Over my stomach. I let my hand fall back into place at my side and stare out the window. Syringe-Man stares back from his position at the panel. Can hardly stay awake now.

Over my shoulders.

Eyes close again. I lean my head against the back of the tank. Relax. Less because Syringe-Man told me to and more because the combination of the cool water and sedative is difficult to overpower. Not that I couldn’t if I wanted to. Over my chin. The water level rises over my mouth and little streams of the liquid find their way through the cracks in my lips. Habitually, I take a deep breath in through my nose just before the water rises over it. Over my eyes.

I won’t fight it anymore. Maybe the rest will be good for me.

Over my head. And then, I don’t feel.

And then, it’s kind of like being in a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, this is hard to keep up with when you're working two jobs. I'll try to update sooner next time.
> 
> The first bit to this I actually wrote several months ago, and is what birthed the idea for the whole story. If it seems a little out-of-character, it's mainly due to the fact that there was quite a bit of character development over the time spent writing and I liked it too much to change it to fit the story better. I hope you enjoy it anyway!


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